


A Scandal In New Jersey

by transfixme_quite



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blackmail, Drug Use, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-08
Updated: 2013-06-08
Packaged: 2017-12-14 07:16:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/834185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/transfixme_quite/pseuds/transfixme_quite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A young Sherlock Holmes runs away to New York City, joins a band, and meets a mysterious man with a smile and a secret.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Scandal In New Jersey

**Author's Note:**

> This is set long before Sherlock meets John. I wrote the characters of Ian Allen and Governor Chisholm with Michael Fassbender and James McAvoy in mind, respectively. Not that it matters, but if you'd like faces to go with the characters, there you are. Also, this is my first attempt at reworking an already existing story, specifically A Scandal In Bohemia. Enjoy!

Sherlock Holmes was 23 years old, and fed up. Too many things had happened, things he didn't want to think about, much less discuss.  On a particularly dreary and insipid morning, he raided his trust fund, took a cab to the airport, and bought a one way ticket to New York City.  Not wanting to leave a trail, he used cash, and a fake passport from he had made with the name Jean Vernet, home country of France. He wondered if anyone was looking for him that hard at all. Difficult to believe a pair of sunglasses and a hat pulled low was enough to get past the watchful eyes around London.

 

Once he was out of the country, there was no more need to hide. He intended to stay in the states as long as it took to cleanse himself from the escalating and unmanageable emotions stirring in him.

 

A dirty and dank box that tried to pass for a 15th floor apartment, a leather couch that was probably older than him, and books strewn about the floor, picked up from various thrift stores were all Sherlock had in the world. He didn't really need or want more, he thought.

 

One afternoon while strolling quietly around The Village trying to avoid his thoughts, he saw a flyer tacked to the door of a record shop. A forming and still unnamed band was seeking a singer. He quite nearly walked past it without a thought, but something held him back. In that moment he realized he'd left his violin at home. In London. With a scrub of his head, he ripped the flyer off the door and shoved it into his pocket.

 

\---

 

It had been much easier than Sherlock thought it would be for the band to take him. Being English with a "fancy French name" helped his cause. He thought about putting on a French accent, but decided that it would be easier to just say he was born to French parents, spending most of his life in England before moving back to France.

 

He didn't know what he was expecting when they played some of their completed tunes for him, but it was intriguing. The somber projection of their intent was a bit droning, maybe, but nothing he couldn't work with. Since he had been getting proficient at composing over the past few years, he decided this would be a sinch.

 

At his suggestion, they named the band Coq Au Vin. It sounded exotic and raunchy, yet meant nothing deep at all, and "reflected Jean's French heritage", the band agreed.

 

It was a small group, eclectic. Joan, a blonde girl, probably around Sherlock's age, who never stopped smiling despite the nature of their songs, on flute; Jason, a raven haired man with dark skin in his late 30s, who insisted on wearing clothes one size too small for him, on lead guitar; and George, a quiet, pale redhead, who followed the other members' lead far too easily, on drums.

 

Sherlock could have done with a more musicians to round out the sound, but he was impressed with the inclusion of the flute, and reminded himself that he wasn't looking for anything permanent. This was just a means of expulsion, and he should treat it as such.

 

In preparation for becoming a front man, Sherlock found himself being led around by Joan to several other band's shows. They were all musically similar, though usually with more diverse instruments, to his own band. He studied the other frontmen. Not just their moves and style, but how they chose to use their vocals in order to project the right feel for the songs. Sometimes a whisper would do it, or a growl on a certain word. The one thing he noticed was that while none of these singers had any technical talent, what they did have that was most captivating was passion.

 

\---

 

"Do you write lyrics?" Joan shouted in the dark, above the loud music. Sherlock shook his head.

 

"I deal more with composition." He replied.

 

"Yeah, I can see that. You're too quiet. I think you should try lyrics."

 

"How do you figure 'quiet' and 'lyricist' go together?" Sherlock asked. Joan smiled and sipped her beer.

 

"People are quiet when they got too much on their mind. You need to get it out." She said. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at Joan, turning his attention back to the stage.

 

\---

 

A month had gone by with many rehearsals but no real gigs, when Jason came bouncing into the rehearsal studio with news that he'd secured a venue. George wasn't sure they were ready, but the reality of it was it was now or never.

 

The day finally came, and after a quick sound check, Sherlock found himself sitting at the bar waiting for the band's time to go on stage. Some rock music played quietly in the background over the sound system, but Sherlock's attention was on a news story playing on the television behind the bartender. He sipped his whisky on the rocks as he listened to the press conference being held by the governor of New Jersey, defending himself against what, he acted like, was a national scandal.

 

The man looked fairly young, though his severe, slicked back hair revealed his age, or attempt at proving it. His striking blue, round eyes displayed panic as his lips declared his innocence from a claim that he'd had an affair with another man. The man's creamy skin became redder with each exclamation, and Sherlock thought to himself, the man doth protest too much.

 

"He looks nervous." A voice next to Sherlock said. He looked to his left to see a tall, blond man with a rough and angled jaw had come to sit next to him, his eyes also focused directly on the television.

 

"Mm." Sherlock responded, taking another sip of his drink.

 

"An anonymous source tipped off the media that there were photos of Governor Chisholm and another man in some... questionable situations." The man laughed to himself, clearly amused, and seemingly, slightly proud. "In the midst of his denial, his people have been searching for the photos. No luck so far."

 

"Really, now."

 

"Yeah. He's not gonna find em. Such a sorry fellow, that one."

 

"How do you know about it?" Sherlock asked, his interest growing by the second.

 

"Been all over the news." The man said with a smirk that told Sherlock that wasn't how he knew, at all. "Name's Ian. You?"

 

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Jean."

 

"John?" Ian leaned in closer to make sure he heard right.

 

"Jean. It's French."

 

"Ohhh. Like Jean-Luc Picard, ey?" Ian smiled. Sherlock stared blankly, and Ian waved his hand, dismissing the question. "What's your plan tonight?"

 

"My band goes on in two hours. We sound checked. I'm just biding my time."

 

"You don't sound French." Ian pressed, suspiciously.

 

"Yes well, I grew up in London."

 

"Ah there it is. The hell you doing in New York?"

 

"Escaping."

 

"Aren't we all. Nice meeting you, yeah? Break a leg tonight." Ian said, clapping a hand to Sherlock's shoulder and walking away. Sherlock furrowed his brow, turning his attention back to the screen. The press conference was over, and the news reporter was following up the story to lead into commercial.

 

"Reports say the man in question is named Ian Allen, but no one knows his whereabouts at present, and no photos of the alleged affair have yet surfaced. Next on Channel 8 news, what is in your cat's food that could be lowering their lifespan?"

 

Sherlock leapt off the barstool to find the man he'd just met, but caught no sight of him, as if he'd just up and vanished. Sherlock was ready to race out the bar to find him, when he was blocked by Jason. He didn't hear anything Jason had said to him, he just nodded along. He decided he'd look for the mysterious man at a later time, but he kept the encounter in the back of his mind.

 

\---

 

Sherlock had never performed for an audience. He'd gotten used to performing in rehearsals, but this was a real gig, with real people in the crowd. Sherlock would never tell anyone he was nervous, no, but there was a sense of anxiety looming in his throat as the band checked the microphones one last time.

 

He hardly ever played his compositions for anyone, not even his family. He'd played for Victor before, but... he didn’t want to think about that.  And to top that off, this was his first time composing lyrics. Not that the lyrics of the other local bands had been anything to write home about, but there was still the quiet, taunting voice telling him this wouldn't go over as well as he wanted it to. He kept focusing on the amount of people at the bar, and the people entangled in conversation with each other, to ease his mind that no one would even be paying attention.

 

Jason strummed a loud chord signaling the band was ready. Sherlock didn't want to make a big display. "We're Coq Au Vin." Sherlock said simply, throwing up his hand to tell the band to start playing. There were a few people who looked up at the name of the band and giggled a bit, but otherwise no one seemed phased. Sherlock took a deep breath and began singing.

 

_Don't turn around_

_Don't want to see the truth in your eyes_

_Stay where you are_

_The falsities are all that'll get you by_

_Keep on your mask_

_Deny what we had_

_I should have known with your ephemeral nature_

_Our time was ticking on a lag_

_Serpent smile_

_Burning touch_

_I never wanted it all that much_

_A kiss that bites_

_Turn out the lights_

_We don't have a voice in the dark_

Sherlock got lost in the performance, and completely tuned out everything around him except the music, but a loud roar of applause snapped him out of it once the song had ended. He smirked, surprised, nodding at the two girls who had come to the front of the stage. He looked a bit farther back into the crowd and saw him. Blond hair, eyes focused right on Sherlock, cigarette smoke trailing upwards from his lips. Sherlock intensified his gaze on Ian as the band moved forward into the next song.

 

\---

 

Bombarded with questions about whether or not they had an EP out, and when they were playing next, Sherlock found he was once again trapped and couldn't get to Ian. Ian hadn't moved, though, as if he was waiting. Sherlock called George over, who seemed to be both scared of and intrigued by the amount of interest in the band, and let him deal with the crowd, pushing his way through without even a "pardon me." He strolled over to Ian, who smiled slightly as he watched Sherlock approach.  Sherlock sat down without invitation and stared at Ian for a moment.

 

"You're him." Sherlock said simply.

 

"Haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about." Ian replied, leaning back in his chair and taking another drag of his third cigarette since the band had gone on stage.

 

"You still have the photos, don't you."

 

"Perhaps."

 

"Do you often go around implicating yourself in national scandals to random strangers?"  Sherlock asked, his irritation with the entire situation bubbling. Even still, he just couldn't walk away.

 

"No, of course not." Ian said softly. "I'm a bit drunk. And you looked interesting. I've never seen you before. I come here a lot. To escape." Ian said, echoing Sherlock's words from earlier. The tension in Sherlock's shoulders eased up, and he leaned in.

 

"Confessing without confession. Why are you riling him up, then? Why not just give up the photos? And why haven't they found you yet, that's the oddest part of it to me. Using an alias, perhaps?"

 

"Perhaps." Ian chuckled. "Coming to a different state helped too. It may be a national scandal, but without proof, it's hardly of national importance.  All they had was the anonymous tip, after all. And maybe a request."

 

"Blackmail. Why?"

 

"I don't have much, Jean. You know, I got caught up in some bad stuff a few years ago, and there are things I had to resort to in order to get my life straight again. Seems backwards, I know. Never had an issue before, and I swore this would be my last one. Get just enough money to fly me and my fiancee away somewhere safe. Figures the plan of "just one more" would backfire. But who asked him to take my acquaintance in secret, either, right?" Ian sighed and took a long, slow drag, holding his eye contact with Sherlock.

 

"Escaping."

 

"Yeah."

 

"Jean!" Jason called from across the bar. Sherlock turned to look, and Jason marched up to him, Joan and George trailing behind. "The owner says everyone's raving about us to him, plus well, they raved to us too! He's gonna book us again next week!"

 

"That's good, great, yes." Sherlock said flatly, then turned back to Ian, but all that was there was an empty chair and a cigarette filter in an ashtray, smoke still swirling from its tip.

 

\---

 

Admittedly, it had been more difficult to do any investigating without the New Jersey police there to give him access to whatever information he wanted, but he managed to hack his way into their database anyway. Sitting in the local library, hunched over the keyboard, he'd found the case file for Governor Chisholm's "scandal". 

 

The incident had happened a year prior, and the governor seemed intent on fighting something that wasn't there, due to pure fright of the possibility of being revealed. The amount of money that had been requested was quite small, Sherlock thought, for the circumstance. Only $50,000. He realized all Ian really wanted was to get away, after all.

 

Sherlock jotted down all the information he needed, cleared his browser history, and left quickly.

 

\---

 

Sherlock wasn't sure what to do with the information he had. He wasn't sure knowing it would make any difference. Ian seemed anything but desperate, yet he was blackmailing politicians. Things just didn't add up. If he really wanted to get away, he would have by now. Traveling one state over isn't exactly escaping. Sherlock knew escaping. If he'd done it Ian's way, he'd be in Wales, not Manhattan.

 

So what was Ian playing at?

 

Sherlock told himself he'd gone back to the bar to think; because his neighbors were too distracting, but the truth he tried to deny himself was that he headed back in hopes of seeing Ian again. He said he frequented the place. Odds were in Sherlock's favor.

 

Sherlock flopped down at the bar and ordered his usual: whisky on the rocks. Something to aide his thought process. He got his drink and immediately slammed it back, not even waiting for the ice to do its work, and ordered another.

 

"This round's on me." A familiar voice said.

 

"Fancy seeing you here." Sherlock said.

 

"And you." Ian replied. "Another band rehearsal?"

 

"Nope, just came to think. All alone this time. And what's on your agenda?"

 

"Same as you. Probably using other means than you, however." Ian said balefully.

 

"Meaning?" Sherlock was suspicious, but his curiosity almost always won over suspicion.

 

"Finish your drink, then follow me out." Ian said, then walked away gingerly. Sherlock took mere seconds to finish his second drink, then trailed Ian's steps to an outside area. He walked up to see Ian rubbing his nose vigorously. Ian looked up and smiled. He held out a small vial filled with white powder, and Sherlock knew exactly what it was.

 

"Want a taste?" Ian offered, moving closer to Sherlock. In theory, Sherlock knew better, but he also remembered some of his classmates getting A's on papers they'd stayed up all night working on after using a bit of cocaine. In his head, he pondered the offer for quite a long while, but in real time, he'd taken the vial and sniffed the drug fast up his nose almost before Ian had finished handing it to him.

 

He'd never done it before, so he considered this a one time experiment, to see if it would do what it did to his classmates: get his brain working faster. He wanted so much to figure Ian out, and he convinced himself that getting Ian to trust him would as well get the puzzle pieces fitting together quicker.

 

Ian smiled and leaned against the wall of the building. Sherlock stood still and unmoving, trying to make sense of all the thoughts already flooding his brain. They came in a mush, but suddenly, somehow, straightened out into a queue for easier comprehension. He had not been expecting, however, for all the thoughts to be of Victor.

 

Sherlock heard the flick of a lighter. The sound surrounded him, and he remembered sitting by a fireplace with Victor. The sound of burning tobacco matched the memory of a crackling log and soft lips on his own. Sherlock shook his head and began to murmur to himself.

 

"Hey, you alright?" Ian asked. Sherlock could hear, but he could not answer. It was Victor's face miming along with Ian's voice, and Victor's hand that reached out to touch Sherlock's shoulder.

 

"No. No, no no no, no." Sherlock repeated over to himself. He pressed his hand against Ian's chest, hoping to get the image of Victor out of his mind. The two men looked nothing alike, but nothing was making much sense at the moment. Ian moved closer, and Sherlock's heart raced even faster. He became slightly more frantic, and louder.

 

"Hey, calm down, calm down, you're gonna be alright." Ian's voice was a mixture of soothing and panicked, with a tinge of anger and impatience.

 

"Liar!" Sherlock exclaimed. Ian then pushed Sherlock against the wall, his whole body pressed up against Sherlock's. Sherlock was immediately snapped out of his thoughts, and all attention was on the hot breath on his nose, the forearm against his collarbone, the smell of cigarette smoke wafting up toward his face, his own racing heartbeat, and a probably accidental thigh in his crotch. Sherlock did everything in his power to keep still. He licked his lips, staring deep into Ian's eyes. Ian gulped, realizing their position, and released Sherlock quickly.

 

"Alright?" Ian asked, taking a few steps back. Sherlock nodded. His brain was still going a mile a minute, but at least now his memories weren't mixing with reality. And now his thoughts were only on Ian. Sherlock was hard. This was the last thing he wanted, and he swore internally, wishing he could turn off his body's automatic reactions.

 

"Sorry, I got a bit lost. I suppose that’s normal the first time." Everything around Sherlock had begun spinning, and he wasn’t sure he’d even gotten his words out clearly.

 

"You've never done this? Shit. You took it so fast, I assumed you had. You wanna sit down?" Ian gestured to a nearby table and placed his hand on the small of Sherlock's back, guiding him. Sherlock sat as directed, and stared at nothing.

 

"Where is your fiancee?" Sherlock said as Ian sat across from him. Ian's head jerked up, startled at the question.

 

"New Jersey." He said, clearing his throat. "Where the rest of my life is." He took a drag from his cigarette and stared at Sherlock.

 

"You have enough money to hide away in New York for who knows how long, drink every night, get recreational drugs, yet not enough to just take up and leave, go across the country with your fiancee and leave it all behind you."

 

"Not as simple as that, Jean."

 

"You have a rich history, and yet you've not been caught. Many aliases, yes, but somehow always just out of reach. Chicago, Dallas, Pittsburgh, Tampa... You've no plans to stop, and you definitely do not have a fiancee. What are you waiting for? Do you really think the governor will give in to your demands if you simply wait?"

 

Ian laughed. "You think you have it all figured out. Huh? You're not the only one who can do investigating. London. Missing persons." Ian tapped off the ash hanging by his cigarette. "Would be so easy to make one call saying I found Sherlock Holmes."

 

Sherlock's voice caught in his throat. "How do you..."

 

"When you have things people don't want seen, they tend to take care of you. They'll protect you to protect themselves. You're quite missed, you know. Jean Vernet. Cute. Seems you have experience with aliases too. You should call your mother..."

 

"How DARE you..."

 

"How dare YOU. I knew from the second I saw you that something was off. You hold yourself different than any other 'bloke' I've seen come through here, and when you pressed me for information, I knew I was right. Maybe I haven't made myself known to other people, but most people don't pick up on what I say to them the way you did. You meddle, thinking it will help, or make you look superior, knowing you solved something other people can't. Well, Sherlock, how's it feel to be on the other side?"

 

"I..." Sherlock felt the universe closing in on him, his eyes slowly succumbing to blackness.  The last thing he remembered before everything went dark was a smirking blond with a smug expression that quickly transitioned to panic.

 

\---

 

The light shining in through the window hit Sherlock like a million daggers. He pulled the sheets up over his head and buried his face into the pillow. To his dismay, the all encompassing aching he felt didn't cease. He pressed his face deeper into the pillow, silently praying for relief by any means.

 

Very slowly, he felt the sheet being peeled away from him, and a warm body pressed up against him, cradling him away from the sun's rays. Sherlock snuggled deeper into the body, as much as he could, and was surprised to find human warmth was curing what ailed him. He dared not open his eyes.

 

Sherlock began to become aware of himself, and realized he was in his pants, and nothing else. Had he not been afraid of all the pain rushing back into his body like a javelin, he was sure he'd have immediately jumped out of the bed and demanded answers. But as it was, strong arms wrapped around his back and held on tight, fingers gently caressed bare skin. Sherlock relaxed, and slipped back into a deep sleep.

 

\---

 

"Hng." Sherlock started awake, almost feeling shocked out of his slumber. He did not feel rested, either. He was facing an open window, a breeze fluttering the sheer curtains, and a clear view of the setting sun. He wasn't in his own apartment.

 

"Morning, sunshine." A voice spoke from behind him, and suddenly Sherlock was aware of the weight on the bed next to him. Sherlock slowly turned onto his back, his muscles stiff. A piece of bacon hovered over his face. "Have some." Sherlock flinched away from the smell. "Believe me, I know, but you haven't eaten in a long while and you need something. Eat it." The bacon dangled again, and Sherlock snatched it and sat up.

 

Ian smiled at him, picking up another piece of bacon from a plate on his lap full of the stuff. It looked like enough bacon for an army, and Sherlock felt sick.

 

"What happened?"

 

"You snorted a lot for your first time. And then I aggravated you. I shouldn't have, and I'm sorry. Your heart was racing so fast, too fast. You fainted. I almost took you to the ER, but well, you certainly don't need any trouble. You've been passed out for well over 15 hours. It wasn't a restful sleep though. You're still a bit damp from sweat. You may want a shower."

 

Sherlock was quiet, just staring at Ian. He wasn't sure whether to thank him or curse at him. He still felt restless, however, and quite exposed, on many levels.

 

"My fiancee." Ian said. Sherlock turned toward Ian to see him gesture toward a photo of a gorgeous Japanese woman in a frame beside the bed. Ian shrugged. "Ex fiancee, I guess. I miss her. I promised her we'd go somewhere, leave it all behind. Told her I made plans. Then she found out about James... Governor Chisholm." Ian laughed sadly. "Said I'd never change. She's right."

 

Sherlock groaned. He wasn't up for this conversation. "Did you... Did we..." He said, his throat still dry.

 

"Sherlock, come on now. I don't get off on unconscious bodies." Ian almost tsked, as if Sherlock should have known better. Sherlock flinched at the use of his real name. He hadn't heard anyone call him that in a while. "You want I should keep calling you Jean?" Ian asked, seeing Sherlock's reaction. Sherlock shook his head slowly.

 

"What are we... What are you doing? What are you going to do?" Sherlock was unsure of his words.

 

"About what?" Ian popped another piece of bacon into his mouth and chuckled, nodding toward the television, which was on mute. Sherlock looked at the screen to see the governor holding a press conference. The headline at the bottom said "NJ Governor Confesses To Gay Affair". Sherlock whipped around to look back at Ian, who was still amused.

 

"What..." Sherlock definitely didn't like how he was feeling. Confused and helpless weren't at the top of the list of experiences he enjoyed.

 

"I guess someone contacted the governor's people. Said they didn't want the money anymore. That they'd release the photos just for fun. He thinks admitting to it before the photos get seen by anyone will help him keep his dignity. Smart move on his part, don't you think?" Ian dangled a strip in Sherlock's face again as he recounted the news story.

 

"...There are no photos." Sherlock quickly realized after a quiet moment to gather his thoughts.

 

"Bingo."

 

"Why? Your fiancee... The money... You let go of all of it. For what?"

 

"She left me, Sherlock. I was doing this for her, and she left me. What's the point now? The only satisfaction I can really have is knowing his life is as destroyed as mine. Looks like I've gotten my wish." Ian sneered, pushing the plate away from him.

 

"You never wanted to escape. You only wanted to keep an eagle's eye on him. Far enough away to be safe, close enough to swoop in and catch your prey when the time was right." Sherlock stared at Ian, gaping. Ian's face was chiseled with refined arrogance and a smirk.

 

"Haven't you ever wanted to exact revenge on someone? Maybe whoever those songs you sang were about?"

 

Sherlock recoiled, drawing his knees up to his forehead, trying to block the memories by shielding his eyes. He felt a hand on his back, and he looked at Ian again. Ian looked genuinely concerned, but Sherlock was having none of it.

 

"There is no one. It's all a fabrication, just like Jean Vernet. I have better and more important things to do than allow myself to fall prey to the weakest of emotions. Everything you've done is because you're weak. I am not weak." Sherlock shrugged Ian's hand away, roughly.

 

"Oh? Why are you in New York, then? This isn't a vacation. And you're not some undercover cop. What are you escaping from? I could kick you out right now, you know that? But I won't. I'm not gaining anything by having you here. Nothing material anyway." The room fell silent. Sherlock did not respond or move for several minutes. Ian waited.

 

"I'm not a weak man." Sherlock repeated firmly, though his voice was so soft Ian almost didn't hear him. Ian pressed his lips together into a thin line and patted Sherlock's shoulder.

 

"You need to get home before someone thinks I kidnapped you. Your clothes are on the radiator." Ian pointed, and Sherlock rose slowly to get dressed.

 

\---

 

There was absolutely no reason for Ian to accompany Sherlock on his cab ride home, but he had anyway. They sat in silence for the entire ride, Sherlock staring out the window, and Ian keeping a watchful eye on Sherlock. When they arrived at Sherlock's building, Ian paid the cabbie and exited the vehicle with Sherlock.

 

"This has been fun." Ian said mournfully. Sherlock sneered and shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. He felt something small in his pocket, and he grasped it without removing his hand. "You're one of a kind, you know that?"

 

"Quite." Sherlock oozed sarcasm and disdain. Ian sighed and placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, then leaned in to kiss him gently on the mouth. Sherlock froze, not knowing how to react, or if he even should. Ian pulled back and smiled sadly, and without a word, turned around and walked down the street, away from Sherlock.

 

Sherlock watched Ian walk away for several moments, still in shock at the kiss, then pulled his hand out of his pocket. Slowly, he opened his fist, revealing another small vial of cocaine. Sherlock furrowed his brow, and wondered if that had been left there or placed there. He shoved it back in his pocket and went inside.

**Author's Note:**

> There will be more coming, to expand on Victor and the role he played in making Sherlock run away to the states. I don't know when, though. But there will be more.  
> This series ties into my other series, Deconstructing the Standard, where Sherlock briefly mentions his past with Victor. Go check that out in the meantime! =)


End file.
